


Now These Two Remain

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Homestuck 2: Beyond Canon, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Redemption, Sibling Incest, Swordfighting, The Homestuck Epilogues: Meat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:21:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25704274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "So, what’s your plan?” Dirk asks. “Fuck the evil out of me? I’ve gotta admit, this doesn’t seem like your style.”
Relationships: Dave Strider/Dirk Strider
Comments: 5
Kudos: 59





	Now These Two Remain

**Author's Note:**

> Title - and heart and soul of this fic - from Car Seat Headrest's "Famous Prophets (Stars)."

When they catch up to the _Theseus_ , the only indication that time is still passing is the steady beat of Dirk’s heart. The ship jostles when Dave, Karkat, Roxy, Kanaya, and Jade step aboard, sending a couple of the papers strewn about on Dirk’s desk sliding from side to side. Dirk doesn’t move. He’s already been so gracious as to slip his voice to the back burner; there’s no need to help them out any further. This mission wasn’t that suicidal.

Voices start to echo down the empty halls - reunions, questions, plans for a breach. Rosebot and Terezi willingly join their ranks. Dirk lets them. This is, ultimately (and no pun intended there, he swears), his battle. Besides, he doesn’t think that Rose will be of any use any time soon, not without his guidance.

The voices grow louder, closer. Footsteps join them, the scrape of a sword being drawn, the rev of a chainsaw. Dirk’s katana falls from his sylladex and into his outstretched hand. The grip is comfortable, natural, in his hand, and for a moment he allows himself to consider victory. 

He could do it. About six to one aren’t the worst odds he’s faced by any means, and he’s certain that any death he deals out today will be Heroic. He’s sure there’ll be at least one less member of their party on the return trip, at the very least. Gotta keep cementing that “villain” title until the very end. Except - well, the aforementioned end is at least 50.4% of the reason they’re all here today. Dirk’s not getting out of this one as a capitate being.

The voices and footsteps come to a staggered halt just outside of the door to Dirk’s study. Dirk’s hand tenses, just for a second, around the handle of his katana, but he makes sure that his posture is in the perfect medium between relaxed and prepared as the door swings open.

It’s... Dave. It’s just Dave, no back-up, no one and nothing behind him except for the soft click of the door falling shut. His sword catches the dim light of the desk lamp and casts it, shaking with near imperceptible tremors, back towards Dirk. His face is unreadable through years of practice and dark shades, and when Dirk tries to get some narrative insight, he finds nothing but a wall. Huh. He must have been taking lessons from Roxy. That’s interesting, actually.

For a moment Dirk would have no luck in guessing the length of, there’s silence. Presumably, Dave is staring at Dirk, but two sets of shades and a narrative fog make it hard to say for sure. Either way, Dirk feels safe enough in the way he stares at Dave, feeling a bit like he’s on a rooftop and a bit like he’s in the Texas heat, cataloguing each and every difference that their respective journeys have brought him. 

Dave’s not any taller than he was before but his posture is stiffer than usual. He’ll be at eye level with Dirk, for a moment. There’s a faint line of stubble along the firm set of his jaw, and there’s no doubt that the alterations to his god tier outfit were made by Kanaya. He looks, in a word, good, but that’s the kind of thought that Dirk still tries to keep himself above.

The silence stretches on. The sound of rustling fabric and a whisper comes from behind the door, and Dirk arches an eyebrow. Dave almost definitely follows the movement, but he continues to stand completely still as time slows to a halt.

Dirk’s felt the effects of Dave’s powers before, of course, so the way the air grows heavy and stagnant around him is familiar. The way that he can still breathe at a normal rate is… not. 

“Selective time control. You’ve gotten good,” Dirk says. His voice is level, like he’s an actor at his first cold read and he’s still figuring out the motivations he’s supposed to be putting in the space between his words.

Dave still doesn’t move, not exactly, but the light reflecting from his sword wavers. “I’ve had time to practice.”

Dirk holds his gaze steady. “Why? Doesn’t seem like you to want to keep the glory all to yourself.”

“Sure.” The corner of Dave’s mouth quirks down, just for a second, and a silence stretches out for so long that Dirk starts to wonder if Dave has gone ahead and frozen him in time as well. It’s certainly not a war tactic befitting a Knight, but then again, none of them have ever been that good at filling their roles. But no, no, that’s not it, because Dave finally speaks. “I don’t want to kill you.” 

The derisive snort that Dirk offers in response is textbook villainy. He congratulates himself silently. “Well, tough luck, ‘specially since it looks like you’ve locked all your reinforcements out.”

“You’d already be dead if I hadn’t,” Dave says defensively. Good. Defense isn’t as much of an opposite of offense as most people think. 

“Probably,” Dirk admits. He wants to stand - the way Dave is technically looking down at him is more than a bit unsettling and just a bit more an adjective he’s not quite ready for yet - but he has a feeling that any movement will result in an instant swing from Dave. He’s not ready for that one just yet either. 

This time, the room doesn’t fall silent. Dave’s breathing is audible in the quiet tension, and Dirk watches his throat work at the exact moment that he realizes they both can hear it. 

Dirk watches him frozen, searching for a beginning in the avalanche of words almost certainly careening wildly through his head, for a beat longer before saying, “So you don’t want to kill me, but you come in with your sword drawn. Actions, words, Dave.”

A split second later, the harsh clang of metal reverberates through the room. Dirk eyes the spot where the two blades collided, his katana only an inch away from his throat, and doesn’t look up to where he knows he’d be able to see Dave’s eyes. “I don’t want to kill you,” Dave repeats, in a tone Dirk has never heard, “but that doesn’t mean I’m not mad at you.”

Dirk pushes lightly against Dave’s sword. It doesn’t budge. “Right,” he says. “A good old-fashioned non-lethal duel. Sounds fun, if not euphemistically Freudian.”

He’s on his feet before Dave can respond, shoving his chair backwards so that he can stand and flash step to the side of the desk. If they’re doing this, Dirk’s having a sword fight, not some parkour bullshit. 

“Yeah, something like that,” Dave says. There’s a second, less than, really, where he looks like he might hesitate, but then he’s in front of Dirk and their blades meet in the most euphemistically Freudian sense that the narrative will allow.

Dirk lets the metal scrape together - he knows Dave hates the sound and he knows villains don’t fight fair - before whipping his katana to the side and jabbing it back towards Dave’s torso. It’s matched easily. “Just so you know,” Dirk warns, “you’re going non-lethal. I’m still the bad guy.”

Dave doesn’t answer, unless he’s invented a new type of communication using an elaborate mechanism of sword swings. Dirk blocks the swing towards his shoulder without so much as a thought. Muscle memory’s a powerful thing, especially when one of your infinite selves taught your opponent nearly every damn tactic he knows. 

“What, no clever banter?” Dirk asks, stepping forward in perfect synchronicity with the backwards step he knew Dave was going to take. Dave blocks the strike Dirk makes at his neck, and Dirk readjusts his grip on his katana. “Audience is gonna get bored.”

“I’m done with the meta bullshit, Dirk,” Dave says, and there’s that tone again, unfamiliar and rough and one of the most genuinely serious sounds that Dave Strider has probably ever made. “This isn’t - is this just some game to you?”

Dirk lets himself smirk. Banter achieved. “I mean, in a sense, but I think-” clang “-that we’re all the kind of people that know how to take games seriously, aren’t we?”

Again, Dave doesn’t answer. He steps forward this time, crowding into Dirk’s space just enough for Dirk to have a tricky time getting the right angle to block him. That’s new. Nice.

“I thought the advantage of swords was range,” Dirk says.

“Will you shut the fuck up?” Dave snaps. Another step forward, another step back for Dirk, and c’mon, what is this, symbolism 101? At least it’s confirmation that Dirk hit the splinter-shaped nerve he was aiming for. 

Another jab, another block, another swing, another parry, and Dirk heeds Dave’s request for a moment so that he can try and figure out what’s going on. Narrative omniscience is cool and good until it doesn’t quite reach everywhere, and Dirk genuinely can’t figure out why Dave of all people is so angry with him.

Sure, he’s the villain. Sure, he manipulated and kidnapped Rose. Sure, he ruined the “happy ending” they all thought they deserved. But that doesn’t explain why Dave’s anger has fallen into the uncharacteristically serious space between needing to beat Dirk into the ground and sealing the deal as Just once and for all.

Finally, as one of Dave’s attacks gets slightly closer than Dirk would prefer for it to at this stage in the game, he just… asks. “Why are you so mad at me?” 

Now it’s Dave’s turn for a derisive snort. Like undefined brothersondad family member, like undefined brothersondad family member. “Really?”

“Really.” Dirk’s swipe at Dave’s arm is almost instantly countered, but something in Dave’s movement was slightly less fluid than usual. Good. Dirk’s not planning on letting Dave win until he has something like an explanation. 

Dave’s mouth tightens into the thinnest line Dirk’s ever seen it make. “How honest do you want me to be?”

Metal hits metal; Dirk takes a step forward and Dave takes a step back. The study is small enough that Dave’s only a few feet away from the corner. “Lightning round honest,” Dirk says, and he’s the villain, he’s the bad guy, the wince that visibly passes through Dave’s face doesn’t make him feel guilty. 

“Fine,” Dave says. His jaw visibly tightens, but he doesn’t miss a beat before trying to hit Dirk in the knee. “Fine. You - you left me, okay? And you did a lot of shitty things and you left everyone but Rose and I guess Terezi, for some fucking reason, but you - I was excited, Dirk. All kid in a candy store, except those shelves aren’t filled with sugar, they’ve just got proof that your brother isn’t actually your capital-b Brother, but then, oh shit, the store’s burned down and you’re the guy sent to go knock down the foundations just so no one ever dares to think that this place could be rebuilt, and.” Another swing, this one close enough to slice into the collar of Dirk’s cape before he pushes Dave’s sword away. “And there’s still this part of me that sees all this brick lying around, and I’m telling myself it’s not a lost fucking cause, but even the bricks are acting like they are, and, so, yeah. That’s why I’m mad.”

He pauses, like he’s trying to catch his breath, and Dirk catches him in the shoulder. It barely cuts through the fabric of his clothes, but the sharp inhale of breath from Dave is all Dirk needs to know. “Interesting,” Dirk says. He has a sense that Dave hasn’t said everything, but he can’t quite tell whether that’s Official Canon Knowledge or a personal hunch, so he doesn’t push it yet. Instead, he pushes Dave back further, two steps in quick succession, until Dave is only a few inches away from being literally cornered. 

Dave, for his part, has returned to his uncharacteristic silence, but at least this time it feels anticipatory, not just stubborn. He’s going to say something as soon as he figures out what convoluted metaphor he’s going to pretend to hide behind this time. 

Dirk doesn’t give him time to sit and ponder, though - he swings his katana down towards the hilt of Dave’s sword, as close to the handle as he can get, and uses Dave’s own momentum to send the sword clattering to the floor. Dave instinctively tries to take a step back that he simply doesn’t have room for, and that’s when Dirk steps close enough to see through Dave’s shades. Not enough to see the bright red of Dave’s eyes, not quite, but close enough to see that his eyes are blinking rapidly. Holy shit. Dave is crying. 

Dirk will admit that the sight catches him off guard. He will admit that his first thought is, _I could kill him right now._ He will not admit that his second thought is, _But there’s no way that I’m going to - and not just because I’m supposed to die._ This is not how this is supposed to go.

The look managing to show through Dave’s attempt at an emotionless face says that Dave has also had two very similar thoughts. One, _He could kill me right now_ , and two, _he hasn’t yet._

There’s a breath, but Dirk’s not sure who takes it. He looks at Dave, his katana still hovering at roughly neck level, and they’re so close now that their eyes meet through their respective shades. Another breath. Dirk could kill him. Dirk isn’t killing him.

This time, Dave is definitely the one who inhales, and he throws his knee up into Dirk’s crotch at the exact moment that Dirk brings his sword down towards Dave’s shoulder. Their attacks are messy, lacking the coordination their respective training has granted them up to this point, and so it’s really not a surprise that Dirk loses his balance and falls backward to the floor. Judging by Dave’s face, though, it’s at least mildly surprising that Dirk manages to grab him by the shirt and pull him down too.

As they fall, one of Dave’s flailing hands stretches out and knocks into Dirk’s sword arm, sending the sweat-slick grip of his katana out of his hand and halfway across the room. Dirk grits his teeth. That’s a problem for later. 

They hit the ground at the same time, and the wind is knocked out of Dirk by the impacts on both sides. In the split second that it takes him to recover, Dave is up on his elbows, hovering something like inches over Dirk’s chest, and only another second later, he’s straddling Dirk, one hand braced on the ground behind Dirk’s head and the other holding his retrieved sword steady over Dirk’s throat. 

Well. It was a faster fight than Dirk necessarily expected, but he doesn’t want to drop to the level any escape attempt will take him to. He’s a villain, but he’ll admit to having a lingering few ideas about honor.

“Guess this is it,” Dirk says. “Unless you’re going to wimp out of killing me.”

Dave doesn’t answer. His face is absolutely unreadable now that his shades are offering him privacy again, and he’s holding himself so still that Dirk wonders if he’s frozen himself in time out of some useless indecision. 

But no, his chest is falling down towards Dirk’s, then lifting again, and after exactly seven breaths, he speaks. “I’m not going to kill you,” Dave murmurs, so quietly that Dirk isn’t sure who he’s talking to. 

Dirk lifts an eyebrow. It probably looks stupid from this angle, but it’s the best he’s got. “Then what are you gonna do?”

And Dave’s poker face drops, falls away like a sheet, and his mouth twists, and the rhythm of his breath stutters like a scratched record, and Dirk still has no idea what he’s thinking.

Until, that is, Dave leans down, close enough to Dirk’s face that Dirk can feel his hair being pushed back by Dave’s unsteady breaths, and says, “’M gonna try and forgive you.”

And then he kisses Dirk.

About a million and one things click into place at once. Why he was so angry at being abandoned. Why he froze time. Why he didn’t let any of the others in. Why Dirk’s head and neck are still connected. Why he held himself so carefully on the rooftop so long ago. Why he’s never opened the door to personal questions. Why he’s not dating Karkat, even when the troll has been trailing after him like a video game companion for years. 

Well. Forgiveness is a bullshit concept, especially this late in the ambiguously-capitalized game, but Dave’s preferred method of communication certainly opens a path through several different lines Dirk has held himself back from crossing, even now. Sure, a few splinters here and there have had something like this, but it hadn’t seemed possible until now.

Dirk’s brain abruptly jumps out of narrative justification and back into the narrative moment itself just as he and Dave both realize that he’s not kissing back. Dave pulls away and sits up, seemingly not noticing the way his sword slides from his grip and hits the ground next to Dirk’s outstretched arm.

Before he can speak, Dirk says, “Y’know, forgiveness usually works better when it follows penitence.”

“Yeah, well, we’re getting there,” Dave says. He pauses for a moment, gaze presumably fixated on Dirk. “So you’re - I’m not dead.”

“You’re not dead.” 

The line of Dave’s lips is so thin it’s almost nonexistent. “And I kissed you.”

Dirk allows himself to briefly be aware of the distance between his and Dave’s dicks - which is to say, not much at all - before he says, “Are we just stating facts? Because I don’t think that’s getting whatever bullshit plan you’ve come up with too far.”

“Yeah, good point, actually,” Dave says, and he sounds like he was expecting this situation to go very differently. Well. Again - apples and trees and the distances between them, right? “Okay, yeah, let’s see how this one goes. Get this shit rolling.”

He lifts the hand that somehow fell to Dirk’s shoulder and flicks his wrist like he’s spinning a record or executing some weird sexual maneuver, and a length of soft red rope drops from his sylladex. Interesting, and absolutely not happening. This is _not_ how this is supposed to go. Dave is the hero, or even Kanaya could be if Dave needs to have a moral crisis, but the point is that there is a hero and they are supposed to kill Dirk, and the timeline will continue on, safe and canon.

But - Dave catches the rope easily, then sits back just enough for there to be room to yank Dirk up to a sitting position by a handful of his shirt.

“Dave, what the fuck are you doing?” Dirk says, his tone mock-cordial but still conveying, _I am the villain and I will find a way to non-lethally wreck your shit._

Dave doesn’t answer. He reaches around Dirk in a pseudo-embrace, grabbing Dirk’s wrists and making, well, an attempt to push them together. 

“Dave.”

Dave says nothing. His fingers dig tighter into Dirk’s wrists, fighting against the weak attempt Dirk’s making at bracing them, and okay, sure, so maybe this isn’t Dirk’s absolute worst case scenario. That doesn’t mean that they’re not veering wildly from canon, though - the majority of audiences frown upon incest, even if it’s unclear how performative any of that disgust is.

“What are you doing, Dave?”

“I told you already,” Dave says, and Dirk swears he’s messing with time or something because a moment later, his wrists are pressed together and the rope is pressing into them, and Dave is suddenly and abruptly leaning much closer to Dirk than he was before. He puts his chin on Dirk’s shoulder like he’s looking down at his handiwork before pressing his lips to the edge of Dirk’s ear and murmuring, “Tell me to stop right now if you want me to, and I will.”

There’s a pause. Dirk flexes his wrists and finds that the knot stringing them together hasn’t been pulled taut yet, that Dave is giving him an out from whatever the fuck kind of plan this is. Dirk has a spare katana in his sylladex - if he decaptchalogued it at just the right moment, he could catch the handle in his mouth and… okay, that’s a stupid plan. It’s becoming rapidly clear that the only way out is through Dave, and it’s just plain psychology that a childhood of hero worship would lead to Dirk feeling knowing that there’s only one choice. 

He clenches his hands into fists, releases them, feels the way Dave’s breath stops brushing against his ear the moment he inhales, feels the way it starts again as soon as he exhales without saying a word. 

“Okay, yeah,” Dave says, sounding more like the words are meant for himself than Dirk. “Cool, alright. Just - you can call uncle, I don’t want this to be - I don’t hate you.” He punctuates his sentence with a sharp tug that pulls the knot taut, and Dirk forces himself to keep his breathing steady.

“Funny way of showing it,” he bites out.

Dave drops Dirk’s wrists and sits back a bit, just enough for Dirk’s core to realize that hey, he’s not great at holding himself up like this without his arms, and presumably rolls his eyes. “You’re one to talk. Oh, and hang on.” He reaches out and pulls Dirk’s shades from his face as easily as if he’s pulling a bomb wire, slipping them into his sylladex like he does it all the time, and okay, maybe it’s immature, but Dirk bares his teeth, just a bit.

“Dave. Give those back,” he says. The sound is just to the left of a snarl. 

Dave looks down at them, considering, and readjusts his weight so that Dirk has no hope of moving his legs. “Nah, I’m good.”

Dirk scowls. Defeat’s defeat, he guesses, but still. It really doesn’t have to be this fucking humiliating. He deserves better than this, after all of the sick -in both senses of the word - shit he’s done. “At least take yours off too, then, bro. Fair’s fair.”

“Fine,” Dave allows. He pushes his shades up into his hair and stares directly at Dirk with the piercing red eyes he’s never seen so clearly so close. “Alright, so where’s your bed? And don’t try to tell me that you’ve transcended past sleep or some shit, ‘cause my tolerance for bullshit has been gone since we left.”

Dirk pointedly looks at Dave’s eyebrows and not anything below them, trying not to make it obvious that he’s testing the strength of the ropes. It... surprisingly and unsettlingly, doesn’t seem like he’ll be able to get out of them without narrative fuckery or similar drastic action. “What, the floor’s not good enough for you?”

“This isn’t - I don’t want this to be, like, some hardcore BDSM incest porno, all “you’ve been a bad li’l sis, get on this creepy fuckin’ basement floor,” like, do you think porn studios build those specially or do they just kinda scope out the type of building that’s likely to already have a murder dungeon built in? Shit. Nevermind. Look, dude, this isn’t, like, I’m not here to deliver your cosmic punishment. Terezi can handle that shit later. I’m - I’m forgiving you, okay?”

Dave tilts his head down and catches Dirk’s eyes before he can flick them away. Dirk rolls his shoulders uselessly and tears his eyes to focus on Dave’s shoulder. “...Why?” he asks.

The sound Dave makes could have been a laugh, in a different timeline or a different place, but here, all it is a soft puff of air. “If you haven’t figured that one out yet, that’s probably a sign that you need to lay off the god complex.”

Okay, if Dave won’t tell him, Dirk will just… find out. He closes his eyes, lets his mind reach out towards the narrative, and finds - nothing. Where his metaphorical pen lies is a void, cold and empty and still. “What the fuck?” he mutters. It’s meant for himself, but Dave answers anyway.

“Time,” he explains. “That cherub, Calliope or whatever, she said that freezing time would take us out of a setting, like, freezing it, and that would freeze the story or something like that. So if you’re trying to write me confessing someone, it’s not gonna work.”

“You know that’s bullshit, right?” Dirk says. “That’s - since when the fuck has linear, moving time ever meant anything in this clusterfuck? And technically, I think a pocket of frozen time counts as a setting as much as anywhere and anywhen fuckin’ else.”

Dave pulls his arms back from around Dirk and raises his hands, faux-innocent, and Dirk definitely doesn’t feel guilty about the line of clotted blood he sees on Dave’s arm. “Look, that’s y’all’s thing, not mine. My thing is getting back on track, and that means getting you to tell me where your room is.” This time, Dave’s hand reaches out to grip Dirk’s chin - not tight, no squeezing, just a light, steady pressure that makes Dirk’s breath stutter more than a slap would have - and tilts it up so that Dirk really has no choice but to look at him. 

“Why the fuck would I tell you?”

Dave shrugs. “Because I could hurt you if you don’t, because you’re curious, because I can feel your boner right now?” 

Well. Again, this is _not_ how this is supposed to go, but Dirk can’t exactly argue with Dave on any of those points. “Fine,” he spits. “Down the hall.”

Dave’s on his feet a split second later, and the hand on Dirk’s elbow, helping him stand as well, is a lot more gentle than he would strictly prefer. But he stays silent as Dave pulls him towards the door, and - look, okay, he doesn’t trip Dave because it wouldn’t be fair. And maybe he’s a bit curious.

“So, what’s your plan?” Dirk asks. “Fuck the evil out of me? I’ve gotta admit, this doesn’t seem like your style.”

Dave’s face falls back into something absolutely unreadable as he opens the door to reveal Karkat, Roxy, Kanaya, Jade, Rosebot, and Terezi, all frozen in time and various huddle-like positions. “Daddy issues express themselves in mysterious ways,” he says dryly. “But yes and no, ‘cause I can’t get rid of something that I don’t believe is there.”

Dirk looks pointedly at Rosebot, even though Dave is looking down the hall and not at him. “You don’t think I’m evil.”

“Nah, not really,” Dave says. “I think you’ve fucked up, sure, and like I said, I’m not - you’re not my favorite person in the world at the moment. But you haven’t done anything irredeemable.”

“I kidnapped Kanaya’s wife - and kinda brainwashed her too, really -, who knows what state Jake is in now that literally everyone who might care about him is gone, I proved all of your worst fears about me, and really, that’s only the type of the Dirk Strider splinter iceberg.”

“Nothing irredeemable, or at least, nothing unfixable,” Dave repeats. “Well, at least to me. I think it’s gonna take a lot to keep Kanaya from cutting you in half, but really, who’s to say it’d even be Just? And that’s another reason why I’m not going to even try to get myself to kill you, by the way. No point if it’s not gonna stick.”

Dirk follows Dave through the already-open door to his room without quite realizing what he’s doing, too focused on the conversation and the pressure in his arms and … other locations. “Have you considered that that line of thinking might just make you evil as well?”

Dave finally turns to face Dirk again, and his eye roll is unavoidable without the barrier of his shades. “Yeah, we’ve arrived at the part of the plan where you just kinda shut up unless you’re apologizing, because redeemable doesn’t mean okay, y’know?”

Dirk scowls at him. He wants to cross his arms, but Dave can tie a rope a lot better than Dirk thought he’d be able to. “You realize that you’re fucking the timeline, right?”

Before Dirk can even process the movement, Dave’s right in front of him, so close that their chests are touching, and then Dirk is being shoved backwards onto his own bed. Without his arms for balance, he lands with a soft thud, and there’s only a second before Dave’s hands are on his hips, holding them down with just enough pressure that Dirk doubts he’d be able to get up cleanly. “If your new nickname is Dirk ‘The Timeline’ Strider, then yeah, I think I got the picture.”

“Dave. Listen. This wasn’t just - I’m doing this for a reason. If the narrative doesn’t have a villain, things get too far from canon and too out of hand, and -”

“And I don’t give a shit about that,” Dave interrupts. “We’ll figure it out, okay? Right now I just want… well, not my brother back, because that’s not only cliche as hell but a little confusing when I say it out loud, but … I want my brother back.”

“Dave-”

This time, Dirk’s argument is cut off by a stupid, stupid little gasp as Dave’s left hand slides from his hip to his dick, groping it gently through the fabric of Dirk’s outfit. Fuck. Okay. This is _Dave,_ this is his brothersondad, but… that honestly makes a more compelling argument for letting himself arch up into Dave’s grip than anything else.

“So,” Dave says, casually, like the situation is anything but the beyond “beyond canon” clusterfuck they’ve found themselves in, “you asked me about my plan, and it’s basically that I talked to ARquiusprite for a long ass time and figured that this was the best way to get you to realize that you’re, like, not a repulsive piece of shit, and I mean, there’s probably not any use in pretending that it doesn’t line up with enough of my own unresolved shit. So, uh, hey, Dirk, you’re not a repulsive piece of shit.”

He punctuates his sentence by sliding his left hand down the length of Dirk’s dick and moving his right hand to start fiddling with the knot of rope holding Dirk’s outfit together, and it takes Dirk a couple of shaky breaths to answer. “I’m not trying to be Mr. MySpace, but do I need to go down the list again?” 

“I swear, I’m going to find something to gag you with until you’re ready to talk about this reasonably,” Dave mutters, more to himself than to Dirk, even though the distinction is mostly useless when they’re less than a foot apart. His face scrunches up in concentration for half a second, and then he holds up Dirk’s rope belt like a trophy. “Hey, how about instead of the list, I go down on you?”

“I’m - not… what the fuck, Dave?”

“You heard me,” Dave says. He drops the rope onto the floor and slides his now-free hand under the loose waistband of Dirk’s pants, tracing over the skin of Dirk’s upper thigh so gently the sensation barely exists. 

As it is, it’s more than enough for Dirk’s breath to leave his lungs for a brief moment. When it returns, slinks back in like a kid that should’ve known better than to sneak out in the first place, he says, “This isn’t -” and then he cuts himself off, because he has no idea what he’s trying to say. He can’t very well just tell Dave that something in his chest in seizing and gasping because no one, not even Jake, has ever touched Dirk as reverently as Dave is touching him right now. And it’s stupid, because it’s barely even contact - a hand resting over his dick through layers of clothing, fingertips on his thigh, the heat of a body inches from his own - and because Dirk has never needed anyone to care about him, he swears, but…

He says nothing as Dave’s fingers slide back up to tug his pants and boxers down. Dirk’s expecting - as much as he’s expecting anything at this point - for Dave to just leave them pooled around his ankles, but Dave sinks down onto the floor and slowly pulls Dirk’s sandals off, unwrapping them, and it feels like the Bible and _Death Note_ all at once. 

“You’re not a repulsive piece of shit,” Dave repeats. “And I know I’m probably feeding into your god complex or whatever right now, so don’t, like, think that I’m worshipping you or whatever, I’m just - well. Caring, I guess.”

“But-”

“Nope, the only butt that I care about right now is yours,” Dave says. He pauses, then adds, “Damn, that sucked, huh? And no, I’m not making the sucking joke.”

Dirk closes his eyes and drops his head back onto the bed, but he’s - okay, he’s not as exasperated as he wants to be. Dave’s hands are back on his hips and he’s naked from the waist down and Dave’s mouth is so close to him that he can feel the soft, warm puffs of Dave’s breath on his dick. He’s not sure if humanity’s an excuse he can pull anymore, but goddamn, is it tempting right now. 

“You ready to apologize?” Dave murmurs. “It’s okay, y’know. All of this, or, y’know, it will be.” Dave’s hand slides from Dirk’s hip back to his thigh, not grabbing or even holding, just resting, and it’s honestly keeping Dirk more still than a full body bind would.

“Yeah, when you kill me,” Dirk says. There’s no heat in it, though, or at least, less heat than he meant for it to have. The silence of the room has grown heavy and present, and it’s making the charged, impossibly small distance between Dirk and Dave feel like its own private world, like time and space and canon have all fallen away and left them here. Dirk keeps his eyes closed.

Dave’s breath comes out in a long sigh, slow and heavy like he’s also just now feeling the weight of the moment. It makes Dirk shiver, but he’ll never admit it. 

“You’re only dying today if we’re talking in French,” Dave says, but the joke lands awkwardly in the moment. He inhales, slowly, audibly, and his hand tenses on Dirk’s thigh. “Dirk... it’ll be okay.”

And then his mouth is on Dirk’s dick, and there’s not really a lot of space left in Dirk’s mind to consider the metaphorical weight of the air around him. 

Look. It’s been a while, okay? It’s not like he’s had anyone that’s not a robot, lesbian, robot lesbian, or weird, underage troll on board, and he hasn’t necessarily wanted to resort to filling the narrative with his masturbatory habits. So really, all things considered, it’s not that big of a deal for the tiny bit of contact - Dave’s lips _just_ pressed around the head of Dirk’s cock - to make Dirk gasp.

Dave smiles, a bit, more of a smirk than anything else, and Dirk isn’t quite sure how to process the fact that he only knows that because he _felt_ it happen. 

“Dave,” he says, because the silence is growing heavy and he doesn’t know what else to say, “Dave, I - this isn’t how this works.”

Dave pulls back about an inch, far enough that he’s no longer touching Dirk’s dick but not so far that it doesn’t make Dirk shake, just a bit, when he says, “I think I’m the one calling the shots now, dude. And unless you explicitly tell me to fuck off, well.”

There’s a beat, then another, then another. Again, it’s an option. Dirk could make him stop, could probably manage to take Dave down with only his legs if he moved quickly enough. He could kill Dave. He could kill everyone on the ship and keep moving through the cosmos, on and on and on until he’s finally far away enough that none of the people he hurt could be people he cared about, and the ~~nonexistent~~ pool of guilt sitting and growing between his third and fourth ribs would be still.

But he stays silent, and he doesn’t move, and Dave shifts forward and takes Dirk’s cock into his mouth.

Dirk gasps, again, and his hands clutch uselessly at the covers beneath him. Isn’t it interesting how calling a duvet the “covers” inadvertently makes the sheets pages, the bed a book, isn’t it interesting how when Dave pushes against Dirk’s thigh, just a bit, Dirk lets his legs drift apart without resistance, isn’t it interesting how a choked moan falls from Dirk’s throat when Dave swallows around his dick? Isn’t it interesting how, when Dave’s hand, slick with spit and sweat, wraps around the base of Dirk’s dick, Dirk knows that he’s repeating himself again? _It’s going to be okay. You’re okay._

Dave starts to fall into a rhythm, a steady back and forth motion that has Dirk’s hips jerking and a soft whimper falling from Dirk’s mouth before he bites it back. No. He’s Dirk Strider, he’s his Ultimate Self, he’s the villain and he doesn’t make sounds like that, not here, not in this quiet, close space.

But - he does, when Dave picks up the pace, when Dirk’s insides start to tighten and he gasps out, “Close,” in between soft, involuntary groans, and he does when Dave pulls off entirely, his hand still holding the base of Dirk’s cock and his lips, when Dirk lifts his head to look, shiny with spit.

“I forgive you,” Dave says, louder than it seems like he meant to. “Okay? You’re not bad.”

Dirk closes his eyes again, drops his head back onto the bed and prays Dave can’t see his face from this angle. “Still gonna have to disagree with you there.” He pauses, listens to the sound of rustling fabric and knows that Dave is standing up before he blinks his eyes open to see it. “Fuck, Dave, I don’t - a blowjob isn’t going to fix this, it’s not going to make this work, and I can’t, this isn’t-”

“If you say that this isn’t how it’s supposed to go, I’m going to break your dick,” Dave interrupts. The wry expression accompanying his words only lasts a moment, and then he’s looking down at Dirk with a face that would be completely blank if it wasn’t for the - hurt? sadness? something else that belongs more in a Bring Me The Horizon song than here? - in his eyes.

Dirk arches an eyebrow but says nothing else. Pseudo-death wish or not, a broken dick is not how he wants to go, especially not now, when he’s still trying to regulate his breathing and not just beg Dave to get him off. Fuck.

“Cool,” Dave says. “Uh. So. Phase two.” He flicks his wrist, and a small bottle of lube falls from his sylladex and into his hand. 

“Phase two,” Dirk repeats. His brain feels like it’s short-circuiting, the room feels like it’s shrinking, canon feels like it’s falling away but Dirk almost can’t bring himself to care with Dave standing so close, one hand sliding up under Dirk’s shirt to rest on the flat pane of his stomach and the other moving down, down, between where Dirk’s legs are still spread, still clutching the bottle. “Dave-”

“If you want this to happen, let yourself let it happen,” Dave says. He meets Dirk’s eyes so intensely, for a moment, that Dirk can’t quite bring himself to look away. 

“Fine,” he says, so quiet it’s barely there. Dave’s face softens, and the only sounds in the room are unsteady breaths and the _click_ of a plastic cap.

Dave’s finger is cold when it nudges its way between Dirk’s cheeks, but Dirk holds in his gasp. He’s been down this road before - not with Dave, though, of course, not with the man he spent his childhood looking up to or the man he was coming to know before all of this started, and knowing who’s attached to the finger slowly pushing into him makes the whole thing feel new. 

Dirk swallows hard, closes his eyes again. There are about a million and one things bubbling up in his throat, but none of them seem right. Dave hasn’t rearranged his face back into its usual stoic mask yet, and his expression is open and unguarded as he begins to move his finger back and forth, in and out of Dirk.

Again, it’s not the first time, and Dave’s fingers are a lot leaner than Jake’s. But the weight of the moment, the quiet room, the narrative and its end all feel heavy in Dirk’s chest, on his shoulders, as Dave moves and Dirk’s breath stutters, stops, restarts. 

Dirk could still take him out, if he really wanted. Dave could easily take him out, if this was all a ruse.

Dave adds another finger. He leans down over Dirk, using the hand still resting on Dirk’s stomach for balance, and rests his mouth against Dirk’s neck. He doesn’t kiss or bite, just lets his lips brush Dirk’s skin as he starts murmuring soft almost-somethings. “’S okay, we’re okay, just let go, ‘s okay, okay.”

Dirk could take him out. One jerk of his leg would all it would take, really - one jerk of the leg and the day is as saved as it gets. Things move forward the way that they should, the only way that they can. After all, Dirk Strider is not something that can be forgiven.

Three fingers now. It almost hurts, but Dave’s taking it slow and the pressure in Dirk’s cock honestly feels worse. Dave is still whispering, “C’mon, I forgive you, you’re gonna be alright, you’re okay,” into the crook of Dirk’s neck. Dirk is abruptly struck with the knowledge that this is the closest they’ve ever been.

“You ready?”

Dave’s voice, at a normal level and hovering in front of Dirk’s face instead of in his neck, is almost a surprise. Dirk opens his eyes, and his heart and his breath have a momentary switch in position. Once his heart has settled back in his chest and his breath has settled back in his throat, he lets himself nod. He does not let himself say that Dave looks right now, with a gentle blush and wide eyes, fingers slipping from Dirk to pull his pants andboxers down.

Dave doesn’t take his shoes off. He just lets his clothes pool around his ankles, not out of negligence but simple impatience, and Dirk’s heart becomes rapidly reacquainted with his throat when Dave steps forward and guides his dick into him.

Even with the slow, careful prep, it’s still the kind of stretch that has Dirk’s back arching and his mouth emitting a sound he will never admit to. His hands, fingers, clench. He almost wishes he could grab onto Dave and pull him so close that they’ll have no choice but to become one person, permanently fused, permanently holding on. The sensation - again, only unfamiliar in the most cerebral of senses - starts to build up in Dirk’s chest, right next to the guilt and the love and the ache he’s only now realizing might be best classified as homesickness.

“You okay?” Dave asks. His hands are braced on the bed next to Dirk’s hips, and he hasn’t moved since he first pushed in. His blush has deepened, and he looks like he’s fighting to keep his breath steady.

What Dirk means is to say, _Yeah, you can move,_ , or maybe _I’d be better if you stuck to the plan_ , but what comes out is, “I don’t want you to kill me.”

In small consolations, it seems to take Dave off guard just as much as it does Dirk. He freezes up for a moment, then exhales slowly. “Good, ‘cause I’m not going to. It’s _okay,_ Dirk, you’re okay.”

Dirk stares at the symbol on Dave’s shirt and refuses to let his gaze move any higher. “You can move,” he says.

“Okay,” Dave says, after another moment of quiet and another moment where Dirk’s chest grows heavier, and then he does. He starts slow, like before, eyes carefully watching Dirk’s face for any sign of discomfort or anything of the sort, but when he finds none, he picks up the pace.

The bed begins to rock underneath Dirk, tapping against the wall behind it with each one of Dave’s thrusts. Dirk finds himself gasping and groaning without ever consciously letting himself start as Dave finds that one spot deep inside of him, as his fucking brotherdadson drops onto his elbows, his chest barely managing to avoid resting on Dirk’s, and fucks him. His words come in a perfect rhythm with his thrusts, which means that they line up perfectly with Dirk’s moans and his own hitching, stuttering breaths. 

“C’mon,” Dave says, “c’mon, Dirk, it’s okay, you can come home, c’mon. Yeah, you messed up, but it’s okay, it’s okay, just - you’re not evil, okay? You’re not evil. And I just… I need you to admit that, I need you to know that.”

“I-” Dirk starts, but he stops before he can figure out whether he’s confessing or protesting or just reacting to the feeling of Dave splitting him open, the feeling of near-orgasm mixing with the feeling of the lump in his throat. “Dave, I-”

Dave shifts his weight to his left elbow, still thrusting into Dirk like doing so’s going to solve all of his problems, and he lifts his right hand to brush against Dirk’s cheek, so gently that if Dirk had his eyes closed, he might not have known it was happening at all. “You’re not evil,” Dave insists. “It’s okay, we’re okay.”

And Dirk doesn’t know what does it. He doesn’t know if it’s the words or the hand on his cheek or the way that same hand travels back down to wrap around his dick, if it’s Dave’s chest against his or Dave crying out as he comes, shaking and gasping, or if it’s the way his own orgasm rips through him like it’s trying to take something out with it. But suddenly, he’s crying. 

It’s not just a couple of tears, either. His gasping breaths have given way to heaving, desperate sobs, the kind he hasn’t let himself cry since he was a teenager hovering over what remained of Texas. It feels like everything in his chest has exploded and taken everything in his abdominal cavity with it, like he’s falling apart from the outside in, and when Dave pulls out, stands up, and pulls Dirk to something like a sitting position and close to his chest, he says, “I’m sorry.”

The world... doesn’t implode. The _Theseus_ doesn’t change course for a swirling black hole of irrelevance. Time doesn’t start again, but it doesn’t slow down either. The only change in the universe, for a moment, is a shift, like someone sitting down after a long day on their feet, and something best classified as a sob of relief from Dave.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay, you’re okay,” Dave says softly. He wraps his arms around Dirk a little tighter, a little more securely. “We’re okay, Dirk.”

Dirk gets the sense that Dave is waiting for him to say something else, but he has no idea where to start. So not a word is exchanged for a long, long time, until Dirk’s sobs have calmed into nothing more than shaky breaths. Dave pats him unsteadily on the back a few times, then reaches down and deftly unties the rope holding Dirk’s hands together. He doesn’t remove his arms from around Dirk, and after a moment, Dirk reaches up and hugs Dave back.

“Okay?” Dave asks.

“Dude, I have no idea what that even means right now,” Dirk says, laughing a little in that way you do after a long, hard cry. His whole body feels drained, exhausted, and it’s all he can do to stay upright. “I just - we just fucked, and I think I’m starting a redemption arc when I should be dead? Fuck, dude.”

Dave laughs softly, more of a smile and a huff of air pressed to Dirk’s shoulder than any actual sound. “Fair,” he says, then, “... what does this mean?”

Dirk graciously allows himself one more villainously derisive snort, for old times sake or something like that. “This was your plan, not mine.”

“No, I know,” Dave says. His smile holds against Dirk’s shoulder for another moment before shifting back into something more traditionally Strider. “I guess I just….”

“What?”

Dave’s arms tense around Dirk for a moment, holding him closer, and his voice is barely there when he says, “I love you, man.”

It’s not a surprise - how could it be, after all of this? - and yet, at the same time, it is. Dirk is quiet for a long moment, thinking, before he says, “I don’t know if I can let myself. Do that. For a while.” Half to punctuate his point and half because he and Dave are both kind of gross and sweaty, Dirk carefully retracts his arms and scoots away from Dave. But he leaves a spot next to himself for Dave to sit down, and Dave does, after a moment.

This time, the silence belongs to Dave. It takes him a while to break it. “Right.”

“But I guess I can start… somewhere.” 

Dave looks over at Dirk, eyes wary. “Yeah?”

Dirk watches him for a moment - again, struck with the kind of beauty you don’t get to see in old interview clips or through two pairs of sunglasses - then reaches across the bed to clasp Dave’s hand. “Yeah.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This will be orphaned because I'm not quite ready to post incest on main, but I'll check back every now and then if anyone has feedback.


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